What Little Girls Are Made Of
by Kafka'sdragon
Summary: Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of. But what if you’re Evangeline McDowell? A historically based tale of her transformation from human to undead.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Evangeline McDowell wasn't always the undead mage we've seen in Negima. Once, she was a normal (more or less), little girl. Only a sliver of her past has been revealed in the manga, so of course, I have to wonder what her story really is. Here is my humble attempt to tell the early part of it.**

**Though short, this chapter is in the nature of a fishing expedition. If I think there is enough interest in this, I will continue. If not, I can go on to another project. I think five positive reviews is a fair goal for this chapter (and your's doesn't count towards the total Eternal-Longing). In any event, if you like the story let me know. If you don't, then tell me why; maybe I can use your input to improve. And if you don't have an account, get one, since I've never enabled anonymous reviews. If you're going to flame me, at least give me the courtesy to respond.**

**The story is set in the year 1460, and I am striving for historical accuracy. The following terms are used that may not be familiar. A sept is a family that is an independent branch or just a vassal of one of the larger Scottish clans. Gwyte means to lose one's senses or to be crazy. Glesga is another name for Glasgow.**

**I do not own Negima or its characters, although I would gladly take ownership if offered. Additionally, Averoigne and several other elements are borrowed from Clark Ashton Smith, a contemporary of H.P. Lovecraft (Cthulhu Mythos) and R.E. Howard (Conan and other barbarian swordsmen). I would also like to thank Eternal-Longing and Ambrant Arandel for reading this and their help in making it better.**

**

* * *

**

**A Mighty Fortress**

The two-wheeled cart rumbled down a road that was little more than a dirt path hardened by countless travelers before. The ox pulling it, plodded at an even pace. Every now and then, the man walking alongside would strike the beast's flank with a switch whenever it showed the inclination to stop.

A fine mist fell from leaden grey skies as the cart continued its northward trek. The drover was wet and foot sore, but he kept his complaints to himself. Whatever he had to endure, it was far better than breaking his back in the lord's fields, or dying in battle.

He heard hoof beats from up ahead and noted a horseman approaching at a smooth canter. The servant recognized the rider as the leader of the men at arms who guarded the cart's contents.

"What good news?" he called out to the horseman. "I've a wager with Saint Peter that there's a dry bed ahead."

"You lose that one," the man laughed in reply. "There's naught but farmhouses."

The man at arms slowed his mount to a trot. Like the drover, he was weary after the long journey from Galloway. The steady drizzle did nothing to improve his mood, nor did the fact they wouldn't reach their destination until the morrow. "How is her ladyship?" the rider asked.

"She finally fell asleep not an hour past," the drover responded.

Ranald of sept MacDowell had served his chieftain well and faithfully for the past 10 years. Years that saw the further decline of the MacDowell family along with the rest of those allied with the MacDougall clan.

He was currently entrusted with escorting his chieftain's eldest, in truth only, child to Glesga. There he was to place her in the custody of the bishop. With him, she will remain an honored guest, though Ranald understood it to mean a hostage.

He rose in the stirrups to look at his charge. Only seven years old, the daughter and heir of the chieftain slept like an angel. Suddenly, he shouted for the man to stop the cart. The servant quickly pulled on the tether, slowing then stopping the ox. "What be the problem?"

The guard reached into the cart and hefted the child into his arms. "She's wet clear through," he declared. "Are you gwyte to let her lie in the rain?"

"I pulled a blanket over her," the man protested.

Ranald set the girl before him on the horse. She murmured something as he wrapped his cloak about them. "Then she kicked it aside."

"I think the last village we passed had a public house," he told the drover. "I'll gather the others and you can meet us there."

He didn't envy the man having to turn the cart about on the narrow road. Like as not, it would wind up in the ditch. However, that wasn't Ranald's problem. Bringing the girl safely and in good health to the bishop was.

* * *

All through the night, the rain continued to gently fall. Safely ensconced from the weather, the bishop's provost sat before the fireplace. The flickering flames sent shadows across his face, changing his appearance by turns from young to old, human to demonic. 

He was a portly man, obviously used to comfort. He raised a silver goblet to his lips and made a face as he sipped the near vinegar that passed for wine here. Not at all like the vintages of his home in Averoigne.

He had come to this backwards kingdom from his native France just a year ago and was lucky to fall into this position. The previous provost had died a few months prior, and the bishop was frantically searching for a replacement. Having a man with his talents released the bishop from the daily chores of running the cathedral. In return, his faithful servant received a free reign here.

Despite the fire, he shuddered from a chill draft. Untold years weighed upon his shoulders like a thick, woolen mantle. No longer did he look at his reflection; his graying hair held little of the black he had in younger days. If only he had his book.

Again he damned that miserable excuse for a priest who had stolen it from him. Brother Ambrose had come as a spy to investigate certain allegations made against him. The fool managed to find his book and was taking it back to the Archbishop as evidence of his misdeeds. He stopped the priest in time, but lost the book in the process. Without its power, he could no longer hold back the years.

The fire sputtered then released a shower of sparks that illuminated his face. A crescent-shaped scar showed an ugly red against the pallid skin of his brow. His eyes, two dark orbs that glistened like pools of deep water, narrowed as a thought occurred to him. He might not need the book if the child was indeed a mage.

Rumor had it that the MacDowell girl was descended from a long line of witches. If true, he knew spells that would allow him to drain her energy and use it to rejuvenate himself. Such a path would only offer temporary relief, but it might give him enough time to locate his precious book.

* * *

Evangeline snuggled deeper into the covers. Although the mattress had seen better days, it was far more comfortable than the floor of the cart had been. If only the man with her didn't snore so much. 

She opened her eyes and stared at his back. This past winter, she and some of the other children had stumbled across a bear's den. As she listened to the noises her protector made, she was reminded of the sounds that issued from the cave.

Unable to go back to sleep, the child placed a small hand on the man's shoulder and shook. "Are you sleeping?" she asked. Receiving no answer, she shook a little more vigorously. "Ranald, are you sleeping?"

Annoyed, she sat up. The man at arms was being inconsiderate to say the least. She'd have to take strong action to amend his manners. Evangeline leaned over, careful to avoid the naked blade they lay between them. She took the fleshy part of his ear between her teeth and clamped down hard.

Ranald exploded from the bed, shouting bloody murder. Evangeline pulled the bed covers over her head and giggled uncontrollably. She heard his shouting subside and felt a tugging on the blanket. The man looked down sternly at his charge as she tried to stifle her giggles.

"The chieftain's daughter you may be," he said with a steely glint in his eyes, "but I can still take a switch to your withers."

"You wouldn't wake up," she accused. "Eight robbers could have broken in and spirited away with me without you waking."

His expression softened a little. "A mere eight wouldn't be a match for you girl."

He grabbed his trews and pulled them on. "I'll have them bring up some hot water so you can wash."

A look of distaste crossed her face. "Wash?" she cried in dismay. "Why do I need to wash?"

"You're being presented to the bishop today," he told her. "I won't have you shame the whole family by appearing like a ragged urchin."

He started to pull on his boots. "You'll wear you best dress and all your petticoats as well."

"But Ranald, they're so hot," she whined.

"You want to make a good impression don't you?"

"I doubt the bishop will care what I look like," she countered. "You could present a three-legged stool and as long as it was the heir, he'd probably be happy."

"Come now girl, this is a holy man we're talking about," he reminded her. "Of course he cares about you."

"Then why is he being the king's gaoler?"

Ranald turned towards her, a look of deadly earnest on his face. "Never repeat that again," he warned her. "You're walking into a den far more dangerous than Daniel faced."

The girl swallowed hard in response to his words. "Your life will depend upon what you say."

He quickly finished dressing and retrieved his sword. "I'll see to the water," he said while heading to the door. "Best clean everywhere or I'll take a brush to you myself."

As he walked out of the room Evangeline stuck her tongue out at his back. The door shut behind Ranald with a finality that made the child feel more alone than she ever had.


	2. Chapter 2

What Little Girls Are Made Of

**A/N: And so the story continues even though I didn't make my goal. To those of you who showed support, I hope this chapter will continue to meet your approval. As I mentioned before, language is very important to this piece, as I use it to help build the setting. If it seems a bit awkward, I do apologize but I think you'll be able to understand it. **

**Glesga is the Scots name for Glasgow. A sept is a family that is allied to a larger clan, but in a subordinate position. Andrew Muirhead is a historical figure who was the Bishop of Glasgow during 1460. Jacques des Bois is an invented name for a character from a Clark Ashton Smith short story. I won't explain further since he is an important character.**

**Evangeline belongs to Ken Akamatsu along with the rest of the Negima characters. Remaining characters are of my invention except where noted.**

"words" 'thoughts' "**spells**"

**

* * *

**

A City upon a Hill

The horse stepped proudly down the cobble stone High Street as if bearing royalty upon its back. However, the child it carried look anything but regal as she twisted first one way then the other, trying to see every sight they passed. Alternating giggles and cries of excitement escaped her mouth as the little group proceeded to the cathedral. If a girl of seven couldn't maintain her dignity, at least Ranald's horse could, or so the man-at-arms thought.

The veteran warrior couldn't blame Evangeline for her behavior. Glesga was the largest, actually the only, city in Alba. In the whole of the isles, only London itself was bigger. Ranald gawked much like the girl five years ago when he first saw the city. Then he was escorting his chieftain to pay obeisance to the king after their ruler's great victory against the Douglass Clan. He had been just as impressed as his charge was.

The swordsman still had misgivings about turning his kinswoman, as well as the chieftain's heir, over. By all report the bishop was a good man, if ambitious. It wasn't his doing that made his family allies of Clan Campbell. Nor his fault that the MacDougall's and Campbell's had been bitter rivals since John Comyn battled Robert Bruce for the throne more than a century ago. The uneasiness just wouldn't leave him.

A small, shrill voice interrupted the arms man's thoughts. "Ranald," Evangeline whined, "are you listening to me?"

"I'm watching for any rough fellows who may seek to do you a mischief," he replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Which means no," she complained, her lower lip stuck out in a pout. "You never listen to me."

"Aye girl," he agreed. "I'm your guardian, not your confessor."

"Nay, you are a herder," she countered, "and I a sheep being brought to market."

"And never was there a prettier lamb," the man replied. "What were you trying to tell me?"

Unmollified by the compliment, Evangeline asked, "You've been here before haven't you?"

"That I have," her guardian answered.

The girl pointed to a large, flat crowned hill just to the east of the cathedral. "What place is that?" she asked.

"Folks hereabout call it the Grey Rock," he responded. "Why do you ask?"

"It makes me feel odd," she told him. "Like someone up there is watching me."

Ranald understood what she meant. According to legend, the hill was the site where the druids practiced their rites. Countless prisoners had been sacrificed to the ancient gods they worshipped. A few even quietly whispered it was a gateway to the otherworld where the dead consorted with the fair folk.

"I don't doubt that the bishop has men watching from there," he tried to reassure her though the spot between his shoulder blades twitched in response to the unseen eyes. "Like as not they mean us no ill, but keep your wits about."

In silence, the little troop continued north along the High Street, but to Evangeline's surprise, they stopped before reaching the cathedral. "Aren't we going on," she asked.

"Nay, this is the bishop's castle," he answered. "This is where you will live."

Evangeline looked at the wall enclosing the castle. They appeared stout and capable of turning back an armed force. A single gate house pierced the stone barrier. Just above the battlement, the girl could see the upper stories of a building she presumed was the Great Hall.

Ranald hailed the porter. "Here man, tell your master that Evangeline MacDowell, only child and heir of Angus MacDowell, has arrived in response to royal summons."

The armed guard doffed his cap and bobbed his head in respect. "I will good sir," he responded. "Are their aught but you six and your horses?"

"A cart is following behind," Ranald told him. "Expect two more men, their horses, an ox and drover."

As the porter sent word on, the guards dismounted and stretched though the girl remained a horse. The castle's gate stood open and Evangeline watched the constant stream of people going in and out on the business. The child had never seen so many people in one place before. Her whole village could have fit in the houses that lined the High Street alone, and she saw many more lanes radiating outward from it.

A man wearing a black friar's robe approached the small group and bade them follow. They passed through the tunnel, their horses' hooves clattered against the stones and echoed off stout walls. Said walls were pierced at intervals with slits. Evangeline knew that archers could safely hide behind them and fire at enemies trying to force their way in. Likewise, the holes evenly spaced in the ceiling would be used to pour boiling pitch or oil upon the invaders. It was a great shame that a high churchman should have to protect himself so, but a greater one that a girl of seven would understand why.

The procession made its way through the busy castle bailey and approached a larger knot of men gathered near the Great Hall's entrance. Most were robed in a fashion similar to their guide, but Ranald noted three men-at-arms among them. In the center stood a man dressed as neither priest nor warrior, but wearing fine garb suitable for travel. Hair black as a crow's wing fell to his shoulders and the man's face seemed merry as his laughter carried across the castle yard. While they had never met before, the swordsman recognized Andrew Muirhead, the Bishop of Glesga.

Ranald helped Evangeline dismount his warhorse and led her to the waiting party of strangers. After being introduced, he presented his young charge, "This is Evangeline Athanasia Katherine MacDowell, daughter of Angus MacDowell of the Galloway MacDowells."

To her credit, Evangeline greeted her new guardian as worthily as could be hoped. "Milord Bishop," she said then dropped into her curtsey.

"What a sweet child," the bishop exclaimed. "Be welcome and do not consider yourself a stranger, for this is your home for as long as you remain here."

"We have much in common since I am from Galloway too," he told her. "I look forward to many conversations about our homeland."

The churchman's manner was friendly and his words rang of sincerity. 'Perhaps this won't be so bad,' her kinsman thought, watching the bishop take her by the hand and introduce his new ward to the household staff.

Ranald's gaze wandered over the assembly, coming to rest upon a short, pudgy fellow that the warrior took an instant dislike to. An angry-colored scar, shaped like a crescent moon, shown vividly against the man's pallid brow. Grey hair, frosted by white at the edges, framed a pale face pierced by twin eyes as dark as bitumen. It was all the guard could do to restrain himself when the bishop introduced his servant, "And this is my most trusted lieutenant, Brother Jacques des Bois."

"I am honored to meet you Mistress MacDowell," the man replied in a heavily accented voice. As the bishop's provost stared at the girl, the hackles on Ranald's neck rose in response. Concern changed into alarm as Evangeline keeled over in a faint.

* * *

The last thing Evangeline could remember was staring into the provost's eyes. They reminded the young girl of two pools of black water, still and deep. As she looked into those dark orbs, she felt trapped as if caught in a river's current. No matter how hard she struggled, the child couldn't break free of their grip. Like a drowning man, she slipped below the surface and all grew black.

Dampness touched her forehead, and she surge up, determined to swim to safety. A wet cloth fell into her lap, drawing a gasp of surprise from her tender. Glancing about, Evangeline found herself upon a couch in a darkened room.

"Feeling better are we?" a man kneeling next to her asked. He was a huge man whose shoulders were so broad, they strained the seams of his grey robe. The monk's face was wide and his cheeks were a ruddy red color. The top of his head had been shaved bare, leaving a fringe of curly, red-orange locks.

"What happened good friar?" she asked.

"Like a fair flower too long in the sun, you wilted Mistress," the man answered. "The bishop had you brought straight away to your rooms and charged me to watch over you."

"May I know your name?"

"I am Brother John," he replied. "Would you care for a drink of water?"

"Nay, Brother John," Evangeline answered. "I feel so tired, like I've run all the way from Dumfries to Wigtown."

"Then rest Mistress," the monk told her. "Rest and know that you lay safely in the Lord's hand."

Brother John roused her later and brought Evangeline to both the bishop and Ranald. "Are you well?" her kinsman asked.

"Yes, I am much improved," she answered. "Thanks to this good friar's care."

"My thanks as well," the swordsman addressed Brother John. "I am curious as to your family's name?"

"I was born into the MacIvor family," the monk responded. "But I was reborn into God's family and I hold loyalty to no other clan than that."

Too soon, it was time for Ranald and her kin to depart. "Must you go now?" Evangeline pleaded. "Can't you stay at least the night?"

"Your father is marching to join his majesty's army," the warrior informed her. "We dare not delay even for a day."

"When will I see you again?"

"That I cannot answer," he told her. Looking across the castle yard to the grey robed priest, Ranald spoke softly. "Remember what I said about watching your words," he reminded her. "Family ties bind the tightest and the MacIvor's are to the Campbell's as we to the MacDougall's."

The summer sun still hung in the sky as Evangeline laid upon the bed brought all the way from Galloway for her. Familiar objects from her former home surrounded her, but they did little to replace her mother and father. Both the bishop and the friar seemed to be kind and caring men, and the household staff treated her well, but Ranald's warning still rang loud in her ears. The child wrestled with her thoughts as mightily as Jacob did the angel.

'What is that?' she wondered as a new sound made itself known. Straining, Evangeline could hear a tune, drifting upon the air like a vagrant breeze. She didn't recognize the melody, but it sounded comforting. Images of home, of playing with friends in the meadow, and of snuggling in her mother's arms filled the child's thoughts driving all other cares away. When sleep finally claimed her, she could still hear the music play.

**

* * *

**

A/N: Hopefully you made it this far. Thanks. If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know. And if you didn't, let me know why. I'd like to improve.

**Just some explanatory notes. The story starts in late May of 1460, just after Evangeline's seventh birthday. The manga hasn't given her exact birth date, so I set it to 1453, the final year of the Hundred Year's War. At this time, the English are fighting the War of the Roses and are so occupied they are leaving the Scots alone. Bored, the Scots are fighting amongst themselves to keep sharp for the next time the bloody English cross the border.**

**As the head of a Cathedral and diocese, the bishop has many officers to help him. The provost manages the daily operation of the Cathedral and church properties, relieving the bishop of those chores.**

**The black robed priests are members of the Dominican Order. They have a small chapter house in the city at this time. The grey robed priests are Franciscan Monks. While their chapter house wasn't built until the following century, I am assuming a few are present to prepare for its eventual construction. **

**Dumfries is a major town located on the eastern border of Galloway. Wigtown is more than halfway across Galloway and near the southern coast. Save for the trip to Glasgow, these are probably the furthest points from home Evangeline had been.**


	3. Chapter 3

What Little Girls are made of

**A/N: I had finished this a couple of months ago and meant to add to it, but never got around to it. Ah, the best laid plans and such.**

**Dubh Brae means Black Hill in Gaelic and mither means mother. **

**Evangeline belongs to Ken Akamatsu along with the rest of the Negima characters. Remaining characters are of my invention except where noted.**

"words", 'thoughts', **"****spells**"

* * *

**In Safety Kept**

The summer sun hugged the horizon as night prayers completed. The bishop, surrounded by a small coterie of servants and guards, left the cathedral and began the short walk to his castle in the fading daylight. "Is all prepared for my trip?" he asked the aged priest next to his side.

"All is in readiness milord," the provost answered. Bishop Andrew Muirhead reflected on the strange circumstances that brought this man into his service. The brother had been, so he claimed, a minor official at the cathedral in Ximes. One day he had a vision of an angel telling him to journey north and do God's will. How he had convinced the bishop there to let him leave, Andrew didn't know, but Jacques had proved a Godsend after the previous provost's untimely death. Though he claimed to be nothing more than a scribe, the brother possessed an intimate knowledge of the bishop's office. Whatever the source, that knowledge certainly made Andrew's life easier.

"The churches between here and Durisdere have been notified and are prepared for your visit," the provost continued. "Will you be returning afterwards or shall I prepare for you to continue straight on to the royal court?"

"I will return first," he told his trusted servant. "I want to spend some time with my new ward so as to give a good report of her to his majesty."

He had been reluctant at first to accept the girl into his household; what did he know of raising a young lady? Besides, the role of holding a hostage ill-suited him. But when he considered her likely fate in the hands of one of the clan chieftains, Andrew could not refuse. It was bad enough that such a delightful child should be held as surety for her father's support, worse still making her a pawn as the clans squabbled amongst themselves. "I want Evangeline to begin her instruction on the morrow," he ordered. "Best to keep her busy from the outset."

Her fainting this afternoon did cause him some worry as any sign of illness was a reason for concern. It was but a century ago that the Black Death scourged Europe, felling both the pious man and the sinner alike with equal ferocity. "And have one of the doctors at the university examine her," the bishop added. Like as not a good leeching would cure the youngster of whatever ailed her.

"She'll need a maid to attend her," he continued. "See if you can find a suitable girl of proper demeanor while I'm gone."

The man felt guilty about leaving his ward just after she arrived, but he had little choice. As bishop, Andrew couldn't stop performing his duties. Still, she will need someone to help her adjust to her new situation. Someone that Evangeline could trust. "Brother Jacques," Andrew started to say then noted his provost had stopped and seemed to be listening for something. "Is their aught wrong, Brother?

The provost shook his head as if to clear it. "Nothing milord," he replied. "I thought I heard something behind us. What were you saying?"

"What is the name of that Franciscan who cared for Mistress MacDowell earlier?"

"Brother John I believe."

"Speak to his superior and let it be known that I will be pleased if the good friar could be released to assist my ward until we can make more permanent arrangements," the bishop said. "Let it be kept in mind that her good health is important not only to me but to the king as well."

"It will be as you say," the old priest replied. "And rest assured milord, I shall keep a most watchful eye upon the young mistress."

* * *

Home. The music had reminded her of home, and in her dream Evangeline walked through the dark fields that surrounded her village in Galloway. The planting was done and soon tiny, green shoots would sprout, grew nigh as tall as herself and ripen to a golden brown over the summer. A trail led up the steep side of the hill that gave name to her village. She passed between the houses, noting wisps of smoke, thin and white, rising above the thatched roofs. Boys her age were roused from their beds and began the task of driving cattle out to the pasture while mothers boiled water for porage.

Climbing to the top of Dubh Brae, she stood before the wooden palisade that crowned the hill and watched as the heavy gates swung open, creaking nearly as much as the ancient porters who pushed so valiantly, and swore even more so. The child's dream-self stepped inside and headed straight towards the hall.

The chieftain's hall, her father's house, had three stories to it and was built of cut stone. Evangeline had thought it the largest house ever, but it was no grander than the buildings along Glesga's High Street let alone the cathedral itself. But to the girl, there was no finer place in all of Alba. Here she had slept peacefully curled against her mother's breast as babe. Here she had played games of hide and seek among the its many rooms and corridors, and helped the cook by stirring the boiling porage with a long-handled spoon. Here Evangeline had her first brush with roguery as she smuggled a handful of sugared nuts out to the stable grooms to celebrate Twelfth Night.

Oddly, the hall had few people about. Their aged seneschal saw that the maids swept the floors and laid fresh rushes down while the lads carefully removed the trestle table from the wall and set it up. It was then Evangeline recalled her kinsman Ranald's words that he had to join her father in the field. Angus MacDowell and those men fit to wield sword or pike would be absent from their hearths this summer as the king summoned his warriors to battle. Where and against whom, she had no idea; the child only knew that some would not return for the harvest. Long and loud would be the mourning for missing sons, brothers and husbands.

Lady Mairead MacDowell, her mother, entered the hall and the servants converge upon her. In Evangeline's memories, scarce a few days old, her mother was a young, beautiful woman, quick to smile and quicker to laugh, who always had a merry twinkle in her eyes. Those eyes no longer shone with mirth, and no smile graced lips on the careworn face that confronted her.

'I should be with her,' the child thought as anger sparked and swiftly fanned into a flame of rage, bringing a shudder to her small frame. 'How could the king be so cruel to part husband from wife, cousin from cousin, and parent from child?'

She wanted to weep, to scream at the top of her lungs, to strike out in blind fury. Instead, Evangeline cried "Mither!"

Mairead's head snapped up in response to the girl's cry, her eyes agog as the lady stared at the spot where Evangeline's dream-self stood. Unspoken words echoed in the girl's mind, "What troubles you so daughter?"

"You look so sad and alone Mither," she answered, as tears glistened on cheeks

"I will always be sad while my bairn is far from me," the lady replied. "It gladdens my heart to see you, but you should not be here."

"But Mither."

"Argue not with me," her mother reproved sternly. "Go back to your slumber and shed no more tears my dear child."

Evangeline's world turned first grey then black as she stared at the undersides of her eyelids. Had she truly spoke to her mother or was it just a little girl's fancy? And if true, how had she done so? 'Witchery,' a soft voice responded.

'Nay!' the youngster violently denied as she felt the icy touch of fear against her cheek. Her heart fluttered within her breast like a trapped bird about its cage. Witches were those who had sold their souls to the devil in order to gain power do mischief. She had made no such bargain; she had accepted the consecrated host, and had even confessed her sins to the priest. Although the child had neglected a thing or two, she didn't think that sufficed for a demonic pact.

A sudden knock upon the chamber door released her from those gloomy thoughts and they scuttled back into their shadowed hidey-holes. "Who's there?" Evangeline called aloud.

The door opened in response and light poured through the gap. "Mistress MacDowell," a gentle voice called. She recognized it as belonging to Brother John.

"What is it good friar?"

"Morning prayers will begin soon," the man informed her as he stepped into the bedchamber, a glowing candle in his beefy fist. "I've been sent to help you get ready."

"Morning prayers," she replied as tiny hands tried to rub sleep from weary eyes. "Is it Sunday then?"

"Sunday is still a good way off," the brother answered. "But all who dwell under the bishop's roof do live according to the cathedral's rule."

As he lit the candles about her chamber, Evangeline placed a dainty foot upon the cold, stone floor. "Rule," she responded. "Am I to be a nun then?"

"While joining a convent is a worthy vocation for any woman, you have many years yet before making such a decision," Brother John replied. "But the bishop has a responsibility to see to the welfare of your soul as well as body."

"You are to join us for morning and evening prayer in the chapel each day," the big man in the grey robe continued. Though he poked the embers in the fireplace to new life, the room still felt chill. "Afterwards is breakfast and then you begin your lessons."

'Welfare of your soul,' Evangeline repeated silently. The village priest had told her that souls were in daily peril as one demon or another sought to tempt mortals to sin. Could her dream be some sort of temptation? Perhaps she should ask. "Brother John."

"Yes Mistress MacDowell?"

"Could," she started to say then froze. Ranald had warned her to watch what she said and a charge of witchcraft would place both her and her family in grave danger. "Could you tell me who played the pipes last night?"

"Pipes?" the monk said. "Perhaps you heard one of the university students. Many of them have skill in music."

"It sounded so wondrous Brother John."

"We can speak of this later, but if we continue to prattle, we'll be late," he replied. "Best you change out of your shift while I fetch water for your basin."

**

* * *

**

A/N: Like nobles, bishops often had estates that were scattered over the map. A conscientious bishop spent a great deal of his time visiting the various parishes under his charge. Between these, travels to the royal court, and ecclesiastical conclaves, Bishop Muirhead would be absent from his cathedral more often than he would be there. A situation I find myselfin complete sympathy with.


End file.
